


Eyes on the Road

by aeli_kindara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-17
Updated: 2006-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:30:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: They drive, they live, they carry on. Sam and Dean deal with John's death, post-S1.





	Eyes on the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from LJ. Originally published 8/17/06, between S1 and S2.

Speed limit 55, Dean’s going seventy. Out the passenger window, the guardrail is a gray-silver blur, occasionally curving to a stop only to begin again moments later. Climbing lane; Dean sticks to the left, breezing by a blue sedan. The woman in the driver’s seat shoots a look at Sam through the window, eyes framed by wrinkles that probably weren’t there a couple of years ago, brown hair threaded with gray, pulled back in a loose ponytail. Hands tight on the wheel, flash of a wedding band, road atlas in the passenger seat, and she’s behind them, gone. Dean hums a snatch of Metallica.

Antiques. Old spinning wheel on display on the stone doorstep, rocking horse visible through the window. Gravel parking lot big enough for three cars, the only one there has mud sprayed up its sides and a black and orange FOR SALE sign in the window. There’s a man leaning on the hood, smoking. His head doesn’t turn as they go by. Sam opens a bag of potato chips, and Dean sticks his hand in without looking. He chokes when he pops one into his mouth. “Salt and vinegar, man? You kidding me?” Sam smirks.

Through an Indian reservation, ramshackle little houses with tin roofs, rusting cars and old beer cases lying in the yards. A little kid goes by on a bike with duct taped handlebars. Dean bites his lip and fiddles with the radio.

NPR, something about the war on terror. Country music. Was that opera? Used cars — lowest prices anywhere. Dean gives up. His tape collection got roasted two hunts ago. There are burn marks on Sam’s seat.

They stop sometime in the afternoon at a faded old building in a faded little town, paint of the “Bakery” sign in the window chipped and peeling. Sam goes for the apple danish; Dean grins and points to the chocolate chip muffin through the glass, pulls it out of the brown paper bag as soon as it’s slid over the counter and takes a bite. “Damn, ‘sgood,” he manages around the mouthful of muffin.

The woman’s plump face dimples as she smiles, revealing crooked teeth. “Couple folks in town went to Paris one time,” she tells them. “Said they visited dozens of bakeries, an’ none of them held a candle.”

“Mm,” says Dean, nodding twice as he swallows. Mouth free, he continues, “Can’t say I’ve been to Paris, but I believe it.”

Sam’s been to Paris. He just smiles and takes his own bag as Dean rummages for cash. “Thanks,” he says when they turn to leave. He releases it gently, but the warped screen door still bangs loudly shut behind them. Dean takes another bite of his muffin.

They stop for gas a couple hours later, at an Irving. Dean grumbles about gas prices, then leaves Sam at the pump and heads inside to buy a bag of _real_ potato chips. Sam tilts his head back and pours the last crumbs from his own bag into his mouth, then crumples it in one fist. He pulls out his Palm and scrolls through his inbox — all spam. Dean gets back. “Went to the bathroom,” he says. “You good for another few hours?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Sam, and pockets the Palm.

“College friends?” Dean asks, turning the key in the ignition.

“Nah, just junk,” Sam replies. He takes a couple of Dean’s chips.

“Dude, you already had your own.” Left turn out of the station. “Hands out.”

“You could have as many of mine as you wanted,” Sam retorts, and takes another.

“Salt and vinegar, Sammy. You’re a bastard.”

Sam eats the chips.

They pass by a Toyota dealer with massive SALE signs plastered in the windows, through a marshy wildlife refuge with empty nesting platforms perched forlornly atop long poles. “They got eagles here?” Dean asks.

“Osprey, more likely.”

“Whatever.” Dean turns on the radio again. NPR is talking about the same damn thing. Linda Bradfield reporting from Jerusalem. Dean hits seek and finds a baseball game. Manny Ramirez hits a single. The commentator offers trivia. Sam reaches over to turn the volume down low and leans back against the headrest.

They pass through a town that seems to be nothing more than a college campus and a couple restaurants. Dean drums his fingers on the wheel as they pause at a crosswalk for a group of laughing girls in tight jeans. “Semester just started,” comments Sam, and Dean gives him a sideways glance.

“Feeling homesick?” he asks, and it takes a moment to understand, because Stanford might be a lot of things but it’s not home, it’s never been home.

“No,” he says, and Dean nods like it’s an answer he was expecting. They pass by a garage sale.

“You know, I got you a Christmas present,” says Dean. “First year you were gone. Never sent it, though.”

“What was it?” Sam asks, despite himself.

Dean squints. “Don’t remember.” He does. They stop, wait for a light to turn green.

“You know, there are radio transmitters you can make to control traffic lights, or at least some of them,” Sam says. “Emergency vehicles use them, but you can get plans off the internet.”

“That’d be handy,” Dean agrees. The light changes, and he steps on the gas. There’s silence for a few minutes. Then, abruptly, he says, “Just some chocolate, that’s all. Dad ate it.”

Sam laughs. He can’t help it. “Well, I hope he liked it.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. “He was kinda sick at the time, didn’t really know what—” He stops. “Yeah,” he says again. “I hope so too.”

“Dean —” On impulse, Sam reaches out to lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean doesn’t answer immediately, slowing as the car ahead of them turns into a driveway whose mailbox is festooned in streamers and balloons. There’s a trampoline in the yard, and kids everywhere. Sam doesn’t move.

“You shouldn’t stay,” Dean says finally, when the kids’ happy shouts have died away behind them. “Not for me. Not because—not just because Dad’s gone and you feel — sorry for me or some shit. I don’t — I’m fine on my own.”

“Dean,” says Sam again. David Ortiz hits a home run, and cheering roars on the radio.

“I’m not made of fucking glass, man.”

Thing is, it’s true. If Sam went back to Stanford, Dean’d be miserable, sure. He’d fuck half the country and get drunk and mercilessly kick some asses at pool or poker or whatever else he could find, but he’d keep hunting and he’d keep moving and he’d be fine, or at least, he’d be fine till some witch or werewolf got lucky and then there’d be no obituary for Sam to track down.

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re not. But, dude. You’re all I’ve got.”

Dean turns and stares, car wavering over the yellow line. “Nice rhyme,” he says finally.

Sam grins. “Eyes on the road,” he scolds, and Dean lifts them to the sky on the way.

The Red Sox win. “I always kinda liked them,” Sam says thoughtfully.

“Ah, you would,” Dean replies offhand.

“What do you mean by that?” Sam asks suspiciously, turning to face him.

“Nothing,” says Dean with a grin.

They stop at a diner a little past eleven, brightly lit and empty except for one waitress and the cook. The food is disgustingly greasy and the waitress astonishingly ugly, but they both eat every bite, and Dean flirts with her all the same.


End file.
